


Mexico

by threewalls



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Crossdressing, Fantasy, Grief, M/M, Post Season 6, Sharing a Bed, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-07
Updated: 2004-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan is asleep. Andrew isn't sleeping, but he is wearing a skirt.</p><p>Set post-"Grave", but including potential spoilers for up to "Conversations with Dead People".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mexico

Andrew has too much awareness of the warm body in bed next to him. It's so warm in Mexico, all the time, even in this dark, tiny room with all the blinds shut and it's mid-morning because it's cheaper right now and Jonathan thinks about things like that.

Jonathan is sleeping. Andrew is holding his eyes tightly shut and pretending he's asleep, really, and it always worked with Tucker and Jonathan doesn't actually care and is already asleep. Andrew knows that and his eyes are shut because it's the wrong dark head on the pillow next to him.

Andrew should be sleeping. They only bought this room for four hours, before the weird greasy guy down at the front desk comes up waving his hand-gun and throwing them out on their asses into the street. They haven't done this before, buying hours instead of nights, but Andrew has seen how it will go already in his head and he's mostly confident. The greasy guy at the desk leered at them with his hand-gun, so that's at least right.

Andrew isn't sleeping because the waistband of the skirt cuts into his stomach, even lying down, even breathing in. It hurts, because maybe he hasn't eaten much in the past few days and Mexicans are small people, especially the women and he doesn't think Jonathan looked too closely at the size when he picked the long, dark skirt of a random clothesline and ran like hell.

Jonathan is trying to make what money they have stretch far enough until they find someone to pay them to do something, which really doesn't look hopeful, but they've got to try, right? Somehow this means Andrew has to be in drag, because Jonathan is smaller, but he's meaner and Andrew never actually thought about arguing, except now, in passing, when he wonders if maybe the skirt would fit Jonathan better, only he'll never tell in the maybe two hours when they do get kicked out.

The idea was to pretend to be a couple, with Andrew as the girl including costume. Andrew doesn't think he makes a convincing girl, maybe one with a very butch haircut and no breasts or hips, but really, there was just a skinny teenage guy in a skirt when Andrew looked at himself in the hotel windows and he doesn't think that's changed.

Jonathan is making wheezy breathing noises that Andrew hopes won't kill him. He's heard that it can and he worries because he needs Jonathan now, to tell him where to go and what to do. He hopes Jonathan won't die, not in this tiny, tiny room in Mexico, leaving Andrew completely alone.

Say it, stupid, he thinks, screwing his eyes shut even tighter. Warrenisdead and he can't do a thing about it.

Saying it opens the box he put all *that* into in the car on the way to Mexico, putting all the sharp edges of his heart into a nice small cardboard box and running cellotape around it fifteen times. The words are like a paper-opener and nothing else, for the moment, matters.

It should be him and Warren, now, like they never quite discussed, but Andrew knew they would end up. Two bodies and one bed and much more manly sleeping noises.

Jonathan gurgles and Andrew turns to face away.

It's just a warm body. It would have been like this. They'd pull away after because of the heat and just sleep the sleep of two guys who'd just, you know.

Shifting slowly, Andrew moves the hand over his body to carefully pinch a bit of the skirt. He inches the cheap, scratchy polyester up his legs, shifting his grip inch by inch until he's pulling that little bit of fabric up over the waistband of his briefs.

It's really too hot in here, Andrew thinks, but it wouldn't be so bad with the right company. He wriggles his hand down, not quite flat, not quite curved. He can't move as much as he'd like, but the sort of pressure from not quite moving is closer to the few times Warren held him, you know, after he'd, well, swallowed-- Warren was so nice after Andrew learnt to swallow.

He can almost hear Warren's voice-- Warren would say--

"You miss me, don't you?"

Andrew squeaks and comes and blinks.

The heat's finally driven him completely nutty, because Warren can't be standing by his bedside, leaning over him, not in this tiny, dark room in Mexico. Warren didn't come with them. Warren won't-- Warren isn't--

Warren is?

"Long story, Andrew, but I'm back."


End file.
